The Journal
by DangerGirl7283
Summary: The barber and the baker...yes we all know the story. But...if everyone died at the end of the movie, then who was there to pass on the tale? Please R&R!
1. Prologue

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and whoever else helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

**Prologue**

"A-right, sir! You're new 'ome is ready for ya!" one of the workers said.

"Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant day," the new owner of the house replied. When the door closed, he took a good look around.

The wallpaper was singed, and looked more like it belonged in a church than an old pie shoppe. The floor was filthy. It obviously hadn't been swept for many, many years. Everything needed to be either cleaned or replaced altogether. Sighing at the thought of how much work would need to be done, the man went outside, needing a reprieve from the musty air inside. He heard his wife already barking commands to the children, telling them to begin the grueling task of cleaning the house.

London's outside air wasn't much better from his home's inside air, but he would take just about anything. Cleaning didn't appease to him much, so this was better. He looked around, and thought he saw something.

A door. A large, metal door, hidden behind some overgrown shrubs. Curious, he went towards it and tried to open the rusted entrance.

It was heavy, and took a great effort to make it budge, but it eventually opened. Immediately, a foul stench assaulted his nose, and he almost turned back, but curiosity got the better of him. He went in.

The room was pitch black inside, and he couldn't see anything further than his nose. It was large, he could tell, because with every step he took, his footsteps echoed throughout the room.

Though his steps were careful, he still stumbled upon something. Warily, he reached down and picked up the object. It was a book. Even more so curious, he nearly ran out of the large room into the light with the book, eager to read it.

On the book's cover, there read, 'Victoria's Diary', engraved in gold on its green velvet cover. He opened the book to the first entry, taking a seat on a bench outside.

TBC

_Please R&R!_


	2. November 30th, 1846

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and whoever else helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

_Well, I've finally gotten around to re-editing it. Sorry for the delay. :) A BIG thank you to all my lovely reviewers! You guys are what keep me going! Well, enough of that, then. Onward! ~dangrgurl~_

**1 - November 30****th****, 1846 - Monday**

My long years away from home have most certainly been in vain. I have been to that blasted boarding school and traveled the world over, only to be forgotten everyone. I came home by ship, one of England's finest, might I add, and hoped to return from my search being welcomed with open arms by those I loved.

But that did not happen.

I came up to my father's house, but the butler did not recognize my face, nor my name. He said that there were probably many Taylors in London, and that I had the wrong house. He did not let me in, nor did he let me speak to anyone in the house.

I suppose it was to be suspected. I have been away for a little more than fifteen years, without any contact between them and I, and they had other things to worry about.

I suppose there's nothing I can do. I have changed much since I first left all those years ago, in both appearance and personality. I am no longer the bouncing little girl that I was when I first left for the world. It's not a wonder our old butler did not recognize me.

Speaking – or rather writing, I must say – of not remembering things as they once were, London itself is very different. When I first left, the city was brighter, more cheery…but now…

…it looks to be a barren wasteland. And do believe me when I say 'barren wasteland', for I have seen barren wastelands, and London has certainly turned into one

The people look the same – in clothing and in other outward appearances – but their faces are empty. Like there is nothing going on behind their eyes and in their minds. They cast wary glances to others every now and again, but there is nothing there. The clothing is darker than before, as well. More greys and blacks I see…not enough of the blues and yellows I was so used to seeing daily.

The streets themselves are filthy. They are littered with trash and other filth. When I passed by a pub earlier, I gagged with I saw a few dirty men emptying the contents of their stomachs on the streets.

…Where am I? This street does not look familiar. In fact, nothing here looks even a little familiar. I was so engrossed in thought that I have lost my way. This is not the first time I've ever done this, but it is not a good thing, nonetheless. Even now, as I write, the people here are giving me strange looks. They know that I'm not from this part of London.

I must certainly be a sight to see! A woman, nearly thirty, no husband, no family, her nose stuck in a book that she's trying to write in while carrying a rather large and heavy suitcase… Yes, I must be a sight, indeed.

'Fleet Street', a sign says. I do not recall ever being on this street before. It is most certainly new territory for me. I will need someplace to stay until my travels take me elsewhere.

_If_ they take me elsewhere, as I have little money left.

There is a 'Room for Rent' sign in the window of a small house nearby me. A large sign above the window reads, 'Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pies'. I wonder why there would be a 'Room for Rent' sign in a pie shoppe, but any place will do for now.

With luck, perhaps this Mrs. Lovett can help me.

I am nearly settled in now, thank the good Lord above. The accommodations are certainly not what I am used to, but a shelter is a shelter, and God has most certainly been good to me.

When I entered the shoppe, Mrs. Lovett jumped up and nearly ran to me. She seemed so excited that I was there, but was obviously disappointed when I declined her…meat pie.

You should have seen the thing! (Pardon me for using the term 'you'. I am quite sane and know fully well that is a journal, and is not a person to whom I am speaking.) It was old and crusty and the meat inside was…a greenish colour. And it smelled positively revolting!

I shall never try one of her pies – no matter what she says about it.

Mrs. Lovett herself could use just as much work as her pies. In her mid thirties, her own ragged appearance does not make her establishment look much better. Her red hair is completely disheveled and pinned up in mounds on her head. Her pale white skin and dark makeup on her eyes make her look like a ghost. Her dress also needed much work, but what else could I expect from a lower class woman?

She was quite polite, though, so it isn't all bad, I suppose.

"Mrs. Lovett, I presume?" I said to her from the chair she sat me in. I set down my heavy suitcase, stretching my aching arm.

She looked up at me, her brown eyes tired from obvious stress and lack of sleep, but a smile still plastered onto her face. "Yes, love? What can I do for ya?" she asked.

I sat up straighter and said as confidently as I could, "I am looking for a place to stay, to live, rather. The…family I had previously planned on staying with has forgotten that I was coming, and I have nowhere else I can go. I have been away for a long while, you see, and I do not recognize anything. I noticed your sign outside, and since I haven't got a place to stay, I thought that I might stay here, if you are willing."

"Well o'course you can stay, dear! 'Tis not right ta not 'ave a place ta live, it isn't! Now 'bout the rent…"

"Er, Mrs. Lovett," I interrupted, wringing my hands together to keep them warm in the cold November weather. "I haven't much money left . I spent most of it to come back to England from my travels." Her eyebrows furrowed. "But, may I offer to work as a housekeeper while I stay?"

"Hmm. You get a place ta stay, an' I get a shoppe-cleana'. No' a bad trade, I think," Mrs. Lovett mused aloud. I waited expectantly for her to finish her thought. She was silent for what seemed like forever. The weather was cold and the constant drafts inside the pie shoppe did not make the wait any better. It was to be a cold winter, I could tell that right away.

"A-right," Mrs. Lovett finally said, walking to the window and taking the Room for Rent sign down. "T's a deal. You can stay in th' spare room for nothin' a'tall, an' in exchange, you can clean th' shoppe. Sound good?"

I nodded politely and smiled. "Yes, Mrs. Lovett. It sounds rather wonderful. Thank you."

She quickly dusted her hands off, not bothering to worry about the mess of flour covering the front of her dress. Trying to ignore it, I followed her into the furthest reaches of the shoppe. The rest of the house was as… tasteful as the kitchen, to say the least.

My work is certainly cut out for me. Everything is an utter mess. I will need to do more than just wipe everything down to clean _this_ mess. In fact, I figure that it'll take me many weeks to get this place looking halfway decent. And with the holiday seasons quickly approaching, I have no idea how it'll all get done in time. And yet, something inside my head tells me that, since Mrs. Lovett's business is so slow, perhaps cleaning this place won't be as hard as I suspect.

My room, once I unpack everything, will probably look halfway decent. The décor is awful, but it is certainly cleaner than the rest of the house. Well, excluding all the dust, that is.

Whoever told Mrs. Lovett that having pink floral roses on both the walls and the bedspread should be placed in Fogg's Asylum. Something will _have_ to be done about this.

Otherwise, my accommodations are quite lovely. It is a spacious room, already furnished with a dresser, armoire, side table, and writing desk, and the bed is rather nice, despite its unseemly dressings. The room has a window facing towards the back of the pie shoppe, which lets in an ample amount of sunlight, when there is sunlight. Yes, this will do nicely. Perhaps I can find what I'm looking for while I reside here.

I am writing this as I unpack; everything is going into place nicely. My clothes are all put away now, and as I unpack my writing materials, I discover that this room is becoming, well, more to my liking.

But that bedspread will still have to go.

I need to buy mothballs, as well as other things to make this room better, but I have no idea how I'm going to raise enough money. I am staying here for free, as long as I clean the pie shoppe, but that will not pay for the little things that I will need to buy from others. Perhaps I can offer to help Mrs. Lovett with her customers.

Or, perhaps I can lower myself to be a mere peddler of fruits and vegetables that I grow myself when spring comes around, like mother was so long ago.

No. That will not do at all. I will offer to sell Mrs. Lovett's wares, as long as _she_ makes them. I'm sure I can come up with a lie or two to improve her business.

I actually hear the baker now. She is rambling…but to whom? Perhaps, out of pure curiosity, I will go see.

A customer!

Why am I excited? He's not _my_ customer. This is ridiculous!

That is what I thought when I saw the fellow.

A customer came in – a raggedy man, about in his late thirties, early forties. He looks similar to Mrs. Lovett when it comes to looking like a ghost. His face, pale from lack of sunlight, I'm assuming, looks like he has spent many sleepless nights. His dark, sunken eyes only validate that. His hair, completely disheveled like Mrs. Lovett's, is black with a disturbing white streak in it. It makes me wonder where it came from. Age maybe? Or stress perhaps? Something else?

As soon as the poor man walked in, unlike me, he was bombarded by Mrs. Lovett and her pies. The woman seemed _very_ excited to see him. I'm guessing that might be because is the second person to enter the shoppe today.

As soon as he opened the door, Mrs. Lovett gasped and dashed to him. The poor man tried to turn away, but the persistent baker pulled him in anyway.

"Wot's yer rush, love? Sorry 'bout 'aving ta yank ya in like this – 'aven't seen a customer in weeks, ya know; thought you was a ghost, just standin' the'a in the door!"

The man opened his mouth to protest, but was quickly cut off.

"Sit you down, now! Make yer'self comfy! Did'ja come 'ere for a pie? Oh silly me! A'course ya did! Why else would you be comin' in?"

Maybe to rent a room, I thought sourly.

"What is that?" she muttered. She picked up a roach and stomped on it with her shoe. It crunched beneath it. "Bet you'd think we 'ad the plague, from the way the people keep avoidin' me—

"No you don't!" She swatted an insect on the counter. The man, silent in the corner where Mrs. Lovett sat him down, furrowed his eyebrows.

"'Eaven knows I try my best, keepin' this shoppe in ship-shape, but no one _eva'_ comes in!"

She snatched a…pie from the counter and dropped it onto a plate, and then set it before the man – but not before blowing the dust from it!

"'Ere you go! Now 'ow 'bout some ale ta go wit' that?" Without listening for the man's response (or lack thereof, truthfully), she grabbed a mug and peered inside it. She first dumped out the leftover contents in it into her meat bowl before filling it with fresh (or not) ale. She set that before him as well.

"Mind you, I can 'ardly blame them! Th' customers, that is. I know for a fact that me pies are 'orrid. I can't even stand ta try one! 'Eaven knows I can't make a decent pie – 'specially since meat's so 'ard ta come by nowadays. An' if ya doubt me…jus' go ahead an' try it!"

I glanced over at the man during Mrs. Lovett's…speech. He had been eyeing and…sniffing the pie. He even went as far as to try the thing! Instantly, his face twisted into a mixture of surprise and disgust as he spit it back out onto the floor. I couldn't help but grimace at the thought of tasting that…thing.

"I told ya," Mrs. Lovett continued, with a smug grin on her face. Why she was so happy, I don't suppose I'll ever know. "In't that the nastiest thing you've ev'a tasted? 'Ere, drink up that ale…you'll need it! An' wit' th' price 'o meat… When ev'a ya can get it at a decent price, you get it, is wot I say…"

She began kneading the dough, which looked extremely tough and difficult to work with.

"Nev'a thought I'd see the day when prices got so 'igh… Men nowadays think it's a treat findin' dead animals in th' street… Free meat, they think! Ya know, Mrs. Mooney down the street 'as a pie shoppe. An' the queerest things are 'appenin' down the'a! All 'er neighbors cats are disappearin'! Well, I suppose I 'ave ta hand it to 'er! T's enta'prise, all right…poppin' poor little cats inta pies…"

The man's – and mine – eyes widened. Mrs. Lovett saw him I think, because she hurriedly said, "Oh don't you be worryin' now! That wouldn't do in my shoppe! Jus' th' thought of it's enough ta make you sick!"

But then, I heard her murmur, "But I'm tellin' ya…them cats are _quick_!" I know the man heard it as well… he gave her a look the clearly said, "Woman, are you _daft_?"

I nearly choked on air when I heard that. I would have left then and there; left all of it – Mrs. Lovett and her pie shoppe, London, but I don't have anywhere else to go, so I suppose I must bide my time until I can finally be rid of this… place.

"No denyin' times is 'ard, sir. Wot wit' all that's been 'apenin' an' all… T's a pity, it is – a woman, alone, with limited wind…"

I supposed she had forgotten about her new employee – me. I frowned at that, but I will not call her on it – nor did I. The poor customer took a drink of the presumed ale and gagged. I admire that man for being brave enough to try her atrocious looking food stuffs.

Mrs. Lovett pointed at the pie that the man hadn't touched since that first bite. "…an' the worst pies in London! Ah, sir…times is 'ard." She swatted yet another roach with a rolling pin, making me jump. I certainly wasn't expecting that.

The man frowned and started to take another drink. I could see the apprehension written all over his face. Mrs. Lovett sighed. "Trust me, dearie. T's gonna take a lo' mor' than ale ta wash that taste out."

The man put the mug back down. "Come wit' me," she continued. "I'll get ya nice tumbla' of gin, aye?"

The man rose, a grateful look on his face – it was faint, but there – and followed the baker to a back room. He passed me, and cast a glance towards me, but did not say anything.

The customer seemed troubled when we passed by a set of stairs leading up to I-don't-know-where. I may need to investigate later on.

To be continued…

_Well, there it is. Do ya like it? Hate it? Don't really have an opinion? Either way, please, oh please, oh please, oh PLEASE drop me a review! You know...that button at the bottom there? Go ahead and press it! lol ~dangrgurl~_


	3. November 30th, 2nd Entry

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and anyone else that helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

_Okay...so here's the next one. That 'My Friends' song that I rewrote into script was really hard, so please forgive me if it sounds awkward...if was VERY awkward to write as well. :\ Anyway, enough babbling on my part. Onward! ~dangrgurl~ _

**2 – November 30****th****, 1846 – Monday; Second Entry**

I got me quite a scare, I did! Mr. Todd is certainly fearsome.

Forgive me. I am getting far too ahead of myself.

Mrs. Lovett took her customer to, what I'm assuming to be, the living room of her shoppe. I followed them in and stood in a corner nearby the door.

"In't this 'omey, now? Th' cheery wallpaper was a real bargain, too, it bein' only partly singed when th' chapel burned down," Mrs. Lovett said as we entered the room.

She gave him a rather large glass of gin. "The'a you go," she said. "You sit down, an' warm your bones."

The man took the cup and sauntered towards an ugly mauve couch that looked very uncomfortable.

"You've room over the shop, he'a?" he said, sitting down. "Times is so 'ard, why don't you rent it out?"

"Wot, up the'a?" Mrs. Lovett asked, glancing up at the ceiling. "No, I won't go near it." Her gaze turned rather intense as she looked back down at her customer. As if she knew something secretive.

"People think it's 'aunted," she continued.

The man gave Mrs. Lovett a rather strange look. One that is rather hard to describe, and was at the time.

"Haunted?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," she said just as softly. I could hardly hear her, even though you could've heard a pin drop in there. "An' who's to say they're wrong? You see, years ago… somethin' 'appened up the'a. Somethin' not very nice…" Mrs. Lovett went quiet, as if in thought.

It really wasn't my business. I shouldn't have be in there, listening. But, for some reason, I could not stand the thought of leaving.

"The'a was this barber an' 'is wife," she started. "An' he was so 'andsome… 'E was a master a'tis trade…but they took 'im away – foreva'…" Her voice was sad. "Barker, 'is name was." She turned her attention back to the man. "Benjamin Barker."

Barker…now where have I heard that name before? I thought. I couldn't recall, nor can I still.

"What was 'is crime?" the customer asked, staring into the fire, his expression distant.

"…Foolishness," Mrs. Lovett replied, her voice taking on a bit of an edge. I can't help but wonder what that was about.

"'E 'ad this wife, ya see? A pretty – an' silly – little thing, she was. An' then the'a was this judge… 'E wanted 'er like mad, 'e did. Ev'ryday e'd send 'er a lovely bouquet o' flowers. But did she come down from 'er 'idin' place? No. No, she'd stay up the'a and jus' sob. She thought 'er life was already bad…but it only got worse."

I leaned forward without thinking; the man didn't move…he didn't even blink.

"Well, the Beadle called on 'er, all polite an' such…" Mrs. Lovett continued. "'E tells 'er that th' Judge was all contrite for 'er sorry state, an' that e' blamed 'imself for it, an' that she 'ad ta go to 'is house that night.

"A'course when she gets the'a, they're 'avin' this masked ball! She doesn't know anyone the'a, so she goes an' 'as a few drinks, ya know, ta fit in an' such. She 'as no idea whe'a Judge Turpin is…"

My hands curled up instinctively at that name, but I was much too engrossed to think of it. It is difficult to write this even now, as my hands are trying to turn into fists as I try to write.

Mrs. Lovett's eyes turned slightly angry. "Well, 'e was the'a, all right! Only…not so sorry!" She paused, waiting for us to fill in her unsaid words. After thinking some, I got the picture…and was utterly revolted.

After a little while, she continued, "She wasn't no match for such craft, ya see…an' everyone was so drunk they thought it was jus' so droll! They all figured she 'ad to be daft, ya see, so they all jus' stood the'a an' laughed! Th' poor thing!"

"NOOOO!!!" the man shouted, jumping up.

Oh dear, I accidentally marked on the page. Forgive that. I startled myself just thinking about his cry of anguish.

"Would _no one_ 'ave mercy on her?!" he exclaimed.

I was certainly puzzled by his response, but Mrs. Lovett got to it before I could.

"So it _is_ you! Benjamin Barker!" she whispered. But I still can't remember whe'a I've heard that name.

"Where is Lucy?" he asked. His voice was strained in unseen pain. "Where is my wife?"

"She poison'd 'erself," came Mrs. Lovett's reply. "Arsenic. From th' apothecary 'round th' corner. Tried to stop 'er, but she wouldn't listen to me." I noticed something…queer in the baker's eyes…like she were hiding something else – but I wouldn't dare point it out in front of this stranger.

Mr. Barker stood there, his face set like stone. His mouth gaped a little and he looked as if he were going to break down and weep. I don't blame him for it – I'm sure that's how I would have felt.

I'm sure I felt a small fraction of what he was feeling when my family did not recognize me.

"An' 'e's got your daughter," Mrs. Lovett continued.

Benjamin's face curled slightly into an expression of hate. "He? Judge Turpin?"

"Adopted 'er. Like 'is own."

Benjamin began to take off his overcoat. "Fifteen years…" he said. "Sweating in a living hell on a false charge…" He tossed the coat carelessly into a corner.

False charge? What charge? That is my question even now.

"Fifteen years _dreaming_ that I might come home to a wife an' child."

Mrs. Lovett rose from her kneeling position on the floor. "Well, I can't say th' years 'ave been particularly kind to you, Mista' Barker…"

"No!" Benjamin nearly shouted, facing the baker. "Not 'Barker'. That man is dead. It's 'Todd' now. 'Sweeney Todd'. An' he will 'ave his revenge."

I couldn't take any more of this. And what did he mean by revenge? Was he going to frame the Judge? Kill him? Both? I don't know. Either way – or any way – is fine by me. I have reasons to hate Turpin as well. But that's another tale for later.

Mr.… Todd was beginning to frighten me, as much as I hate to admit it, and I didn't want to be anywhere near him if he burst.

I retreated down the hallway and up the set of stairs I saw earlier. I figured that wherever they led to would be a safe enough place for me to hide. I nearly ran up them – I know, _very_ unladylike of me – and found myself outside on a balcony. There was another door nearby me, so I went in there.

It was surprisingly unlocked, and as I entered, an old bell on the door jingled loudly, and just as loudly as I closed it. I am surprised I didn't hear them marching after me as soon as I did it, but I wasn't too concerned about that, then. I just wanted to get away from… Mr. Todd.

The room was (and is still at the moment) very dirty, dusty and dark. It has dingy, old yellow striped wallpaper that is peeling away. The door leading to the bathroom was in terrible shape, and the door that leads to the bedroom up there is in no better condition. Everything needs to be dusted… badly, and there are quite a few broken mirrors that will need to be replaced.

I pray that I never have to set foot in there again… not even to clean. I hid behind the bathroom door, standing as still as I could, praying that they wouldn't come up here and find me.

Truthfully, I don't know why I hid up there in the first place. Perhaps, because I thought that my room was too close to Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett, and I didn't wish to be anywhere near them?

Someone began to open the door, startling me from my thoughts. I nearly jumped, but managed to keep a tight reign on myself. As expected, Mrs. Lovett came in, but Mr. Todd stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the shoppe.

Mrs. Lovett turned to the apprehensive Mr. Todd. "Come in," she said. He turned his head towards her. "Nothin' to be 'fraid of, love," she continued soothingly. He came in hesitantly.

She watched Mr. Todd as he looked around. He touched most of the furniture and peered into an old, broken baby's cradle. Mrs. Lovett then knelt down and began to pound on a floorboard. She pried it away and carefully started rummaging though the opening in the floor. The pounding caught Mr. Todd's attention, and he turned to her.

Mrs. Lovett withdrew a small bundle from the hole. After dusting the top off, she unwrapped it to reveal a small leather box. She held it out to Mr. Todd gingerly, who approached it carefully, kneeling in front of the baker. His face was filled with awe.

"When they came for th' girl, I hid 'em. Could've sold 'em, but I didn't," the baker said. It didn't look like Mr. Todd was really listening.

I couldn't see inside the box, but a foreboding feeling came in the pit of my stomach. Mr. Todd delicately lifted a small straight razor from the box, and the feeling intensified. For a long while, he just stared at it, occasionally turning it, and finally opening it to reveal its sharp edge.

"Those 'andles is chased silver, ain't they?" Mrs. Lovett said quietly, still trying to converse with Mr. Todd, who was in something like a trance.

"Silver… yes," he replied distantly.

"My friends…" he murmured. "See 'ow 'e shines? 'Ow 'e smiles in the light?" He sounded very distant…like he was in a trance. I'm sure, in his mind, he was by himself – no one around…just him and his…friends.

"Speak to me…" he whispered to the razor. "I'll listen. I know you've been locked away for all these years…jus' like me… Well, I've come home, now, to find you waiting for me…an' we'll do wonders together…won't we?"

He flicked open another razor and spoke to it gently. Mrs. Lovett, in a trance-like state of her own, started murmuring as well.

"I'm your friend, too, Mista' Todd…If you only knew…Always 'ad a fondness for you, I did…"

"Rest now, my friend," Mr. Todd said, abruptly turning and pocketing one of the razors. "Now don't you worry, Mista' Todd…" Mrs. Lovett continued softly. "You can move in 'ere…Mista T…"

"You shall drip precious…rubies…" Mr. Todd trailed off. The whole ordeal of this was very disturbing to me. I don't understand what this was all about, but I wasn't about to ask.

As Mr. Todd gazed into his razor, he caught Mrs. Lovett's reflection in it. "Leave me," he commanded quietly. Mrs. Lovett obeyed without complaint, although her face told a different story. I was curious again, and now, I am now determined to find out what is going through her head when she is thinking of Mr. Todd… as well as what Mr. Todd meant by 'rubies'.

Mr. Todd stood tall, extending his arm and razor out towards the large window overlooking Fleet Street. A malicious grin curled up on his face. In a loud and triumphant voice, he said, "At last, my arm is complete again!"

I leaned forward…and immediately regretted it. The door creaked. The next thing I knew, Mr. Sweeney Todd was glaring in my direction, anger and a slight surprise pouring from his eyes.

I was terrified as he strode over and reached behind the door, successfully wrapping his long fingers around my wrist with the first try. I squealed in fright, something that was certainly not intended, and he only tightened his grasp. I frantically clawed at his hand, trying to get away from his clutch as he yanked me harshly out from behind the door.

"Who are you and why 'ave you come 'ere?" he demanded gruffly. I felt cold metal against my flesh as he pressed his 'friend' against my neck.

I managed to choke out…some sort of a sound. I'm not sure if it was a gurgle or a whimper, but either way, I was rewarded with a stinging bite. I felt a small stream of blood – my blood – trickling down my neck and into my white blouse. I swallowed, only increasing the pain and the flow.

"Who are you and why 'ave you come 'ere?" he said again, not as loudly, but more sinister than before.

I tried to cough, but it caught in my throat. My words were foreign to my ears as I replied, "If you release me, I will tell you."

I closed my eyes, waiting for death. He hesitated, and then slowly loosened his death grip on my wrist and pulled away his razor, but not closing it. I half sighed and half coughed, forcing my tears of fright back. He waited, surprisingly patiently, as I composed myself.

I cleared my throat, stood straight and tall, and said firmly, "_I_ am Lady Victoria Elisabeth Taylor, the daughter of Lord John Taylor. And, I daresay, you should be ashamed for attacking a lady in such a horrendous way, Mr. Todd!"

"Wot are you doing 'ere?" he asked again, slowly raising the razor.

I glanced between him and the blade and said, "I'm living here, o-or rather, working here, sort of like you are. We're neighbors, so to speak."

He looked away, dropping the razor to his side, not seeming to care about me anymore. The gesture irritated me, but I was much too afraid to call him out on it.

"Get out," he commanded, his eyes narrowed to small slits.

I stood firm, my face matching my stance.

He looked at me again, hate returning in his eyes. "Get out," he repeated, slightly louder that time.

"I will not," I said, pressing my luck. "I 'ave questions for you, Mr. Todd, and you would do well not to refuse a lady, lest I call the constables on you!" My voice was trembling slightly as I said that.

"Out!!!" he bellowed, leaping forward at me. I jumped a little, but stayed my ground. By then, I wanted to get out – to flee from Sweeney Todd and all of Fleet Street, while I was at it, but my legs refused. I stood there, planted to the floor, my face fearful.

His face twitched, rage pouring out from every pore in his body. In a flash, I felt his death grip on the back of my neck. He started pushing me towards the door.

"When I say get out, I mean get out!" he shouted again. I somehow managed to wriggle out of his grasp and scurry to the other side of the room…but that only infuriated him more.

"I said get out!" He came towards me again, and I tried to duck away from his hands again, but I was too slow. I felt him grab me by my waist with one hand, and with a slight groan, he lifted me up into the air.

I kicked and hit his hand as hard as I could, but it didn't faze him. He strode over to the door and opened it, and without another word dropped me outside onto the hard wood.

Before he could slam the door on me, however, I stuck my foot between the door and the wall, forcing it open. I spat by his feet. No words were needed, I felt. Then, like a child, I turned and jumped up, intending to run, but my blasted skirt caught in the doorframe when he slammed the door. When I struggled to free it, it ripped off, leaving me only in my blouse and petticoat, and sending me over railing and tumbling down the stairs.

I moaned and stood slowly once I hit the bottom. My entire body ached – and still does – and, despite the chilly bite in the air, I was steaming hot from my skirmish with Mr. Todd. Mrs. Lovett came flying out, probably wondering what in the blazes was going on, but I ignored her probes and questions. I bolted to my room, slamming and locking the door behind me.

I soon heard the loud barreling of angry feet coming closer and closer to me, and I couldn't help the shiver of fear that coursed down my aching spine.

Even though I was expecting it, I still jumped when a thunderous banging erupted on my door, followed by a roaring, "Miss Taylor! I demand you come out this instant!"

"Why should I?" I shouted back, glancing warily at the lock.

"A woman does not disrespect a man, Miss Taylor. It is not their place! I demand you come out and…apologize!" Mr. Todd hollered. I could hear Mrs. Lovett trying to soothe him nearby.

"And you have disrespected me, Mr. Todd! A man is to show courteous respect to a woman – not throw them out of their shoppes! I will apologize to you _only_ if you be the man you are supposed to be and apologize to me first!"

Mr. Todd went silent for a minute, and I nearly thought he had left when I heard him say harshly, "Mark me, Miss Taylor: do not anger me again, or I swear, it'll be the last thing you ever do!" He then stomped away, retreating back to his shoppe.

I breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the doorway. Only then did I get a good look at myself in a mirror nearby.

My hair, once pinned nicely up in a bun, was completely disheveled. My neck was still bleeding, but the flow had slowed considerably. It was a good inch long, and it would certainly scar, I knew. I had a great many bumps and bruises from my fall down the stairs. They still ache.

Sighing, I took the risk to peek out from my door. I unlocked it and cracked it open slightly. I saw something dark blue on the floor.

It was my ripped skirt. I picked it up and sighed again. I ended up having to throw it away. A pity. It was a farewell gift from Chief Mhalanuutakhan's wife – one of his many – given to me right before I left Africa. I looked, and felt, horrible.

At least Mr. Todd had been 'gentlemanly' enough to return my skirt back to me.

Hopefully, our gracious God will keep any nightmares away tonight, and I can get on with my life. I am not looking forward to seeing Mr. Todd again, but I must keep my promise to Mrs. Lovett by cleaning her shoppe.

I can only pray that she doesn't ask me to clean _his_ shoppe.

To be continued...

_Same drill as last time, folks! Press dat button below my words! Yes, that one! Go ahead...I dare ya. :o) ~dangrgurl_


	4. December 1st, 1846

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and whoever else helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

_I...hmmm...nope. Got nothing to say... ^_^ Onward then! ~dangrgurl~_

**3 – December 1****st****, 1846 - Tuesday**

I am thankful today. Thus far, nothing has happened between me and Mr. Todd. He has kept a goodly distance away, and I have kept mine. Most days he has an angry stare, but usually it is not directed at any one person. I tried speaking to him earlier, but all he did was direct that glare towards me and mutter, "Wretched woman," before walking quickly away.

The great, useless…thing!

Anyhow, I woke completely stiff and sore from yesterday's… events. It didn't help matters much that I was still tired. I had heard Mr. Todd pacing for most of the night, and I eventually fell into a fitful sleep from it, if anyone could call it that! Everything ached; more or less greater than yesterday since he had…tossed me out.

Might I mention how humiliating that was? No, I don't think I need to retell it.

But I knew I had work to do, and a lady never goes back on her word.

I dressed in a simple cotton dress and apron, knowing that it would probably get dirty anyway. It was a spring dress, a very light one, and I figured that I wouldn't be going outside at all (it was very cold today), so I thought it was perfect.

I rummaged through my bag and found some leftover biscuits in it. As I said earlier, there was no way I was ever going to eat one of Mrs. Lovett's pies. I was surprised that they had lasted as long as they did (they were a tad stale, though), but as soon as they came out of my bag, they didn't last long at all. I tied my hair up with a rather lovely ribbon, and was ready to begin.

It was a little after sunrise, so Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd were still asleep. Being as quiet as I possibly could, I searched for the cleaning supplies. I looked for at least a half hour, and was about to give up, thinking that the baker didn't _have_ any cleaning supplies, when I finally found them. They were tucked away in a hidden corner in a small closet near the kitchen.

Speaking of the kitchen, I was very pleasantly surprised when I discovered that Mrs. Lovett had kept the fire in the oven going throughout the night. The flame had dwindled down so that the wood was only smoking, but it had the desired effect that I'm sure the baker had intended. The room was nice and warm, despite the constant drafts coming through the bakery.

I found a small pile of wood just outside the back door, so I went ahead and tended to the fire. It immediately caught fire again, wonderfully enough. I had no idea how to start another one if it had gone out.

Back on subject, she didn't have many cleaning supplies, or not as much as I am used to, but it made due. And it will have to continue to make due until I can find enough money to buy some proper cleaning items.

She had an old, dirty broom, a rather filthy mop and bucket, a small box of rags, a tattered feather duster, and some sort of queer smelling soap that I was planning on using for the floor.

I went into the kitchen, thinking that if I got the kitchen done first, the rest would come easily. It was just as messy as it was yesterday, if not more.

I started by taking everything out of the cupboards and dusting them off. No matter what they were, vegetables, canned goods, bags, whatever, they were dusted. Well, I actually went ahead and threw out all of the spoiled goods. I hope she didn't mind. She never said anything to me after I finished, but then again, I cannot read her thoughts.

Then came washing the insides of the cabinets. I filled the bucket with water, heated it in the hot oven, and began scrubbing. Hopefully, Mrs. Lovett wouldn't mind if I used her oven for something other than making pies. I haven't told her, and I don't think I'm planning on to, either.

It took more than just a few hours, but I got every little bit of dirt and grime out of the cabinets. Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd woke while I was cleaning, unsurprisingly enough.

Mrs. Lovett came in, surprised to see me up so early in the morning. She said, "Why, Victoria! I didn't mean ya 'ad ta wake up extra early ta start!"

I smiled politely. "I know, Mrs. Lovett. But I figured that the earlier I started, the fa—more I could get done," I replied, catching myself. The last thing I wanted was to upset my landlady and get myself kicked out. I wanted to be done faster, but what Mrs. Lovett didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

She apparently took no notice, though. Instead, she only said, "Oh, jus' call me Nellie, love."

I still prefer her as 'Mrs. Lovett', as it is the proper way of addressing someone, as father told me when I was very young, but I think I may use her first name every once in a while.

She is quite the chatterer, Mrs. Lovett is. She talked endlessly for hours on end while I scrubbed her cabinets and reorganized her shelves. I can't remember much of it, I nodded when the'a was a lull in her speech, making a 'mm-hm' sound occasionally as well. She didn't seem to mind. After all, I was very busy tidying and cleaning.

Although, I did notice she started calling me 'Vicki'…I'm not sure how I feel about that just yet. I truly don't mind either way, I suppose I will just have to get used to it, is all.

It was going on nine o'clock when Mrs. Lovett finally noticed that Mr. Todd hadn't come down for breakfast. I had noticed around eight or so, but Mrs. Lovett was in the middle of some other subject, so I couldn't get a word in. We had both heard him pacing since seven, or even before that, but he never came down.

"My word," she said. "'Asn't Mista' T come down from tha' room yet?"

"No, ma'am," I replied quietly, trying to hold back a mix between a sigh and a giggle.

She instantly stopped talking and made some toast with jam for the barber upstairs. She put those on a tray, as well as a hot cup of tea that she brewed while waiting for the toast to, well, toast. The meal actually looked… good. She then pranced up the stairs to Mr. Todd's barber shoppe.

At least she is braver than I am. Although I don't show it, and may appear brave when it comes to outward appearances, I was no more than a frightened little girl when he held that blasted razor to my throat. As I said before, the whole ordeal was very frightening and humiliating.

Oh look at me! I have had far worse things happen before, and more dangerous things, at that! Why in the world was I so afraid before? Perhaps it's because I haven't been threatened for quite a while, now. I'm not sure.

When I came back to reality, I noticed that I was starting to scrub the finish off of the inside of the cabinet. Muttering something unintelligible to even my ears, I shoved something large and bulky in front of that particular area when I was putting back Mrs. Lovett's shelved goods.

"He's done nothin' but been all broody since 'e's gotten 'ere," I heard Mrs. Lovett saying to herself when she came back. "An' all for wot? Cause 'is wife's done gone and went missin'? 'Tis not natural, it isn't. 'E shouldn't be up the'a all by 'iself."

"Missing? What do you mean? I thought you said she was dead," I asked, unable to keep my curiosity under control.

She looked up at me, startled, as if she'd forgotten that I was there.

"Oh nothin', love," she replied quickly. Too quickly.

"No, no – it's alright. I can keep secrets, if that's what it is." I paused in my cleaning.

She sighed, giving in to my inquisitiveness.

"You 'ave ta promise me that you won't tell Mista' T that I told ya," she said, her eyes narrowing with an unsaid threat.

I answered, "Of course, Nellie. I promise." Hopefully, I thought. Using her real name would help in getting me what I wanted.

It did.

"Well, you 'eard wot I was sayin' yest'a'day…'bout Mista' T's wife an' such…"

"Yes," I answered. "I heard everything."

"Well, afta' Lucy – that was 'er name, Lucy – went an' poison'd 'erself, she went mad, is wot she did. Didn't kill 'er a'tall. Problem was, she didn't take th' whole dosage. Now, if it was me tryin' ta kill meself, I'd go an' go through the blasted thing! Not back out at th' last second!"

She caught my raised eyebrow. "Not that I'd go an' kill meself, mind you…bu' even still!"

I nodded. "I understand, Mrs. Lovett."

Perhaps I had found the inspiration… but I wasn't sure. I am still not sure, but that is aside from the point. I will have to be patient and see if this works out to my favor… Yes, I shall be a famous authoress…I can already see the town a bustle, all of them speaking my name…but I must learn to be patient, first.

"So anywho, Lucy seemed fine for awhile, bu' then, she started doin' queer things…like forgettin' stuff – an' I don't mean "Oh Nellie, I forgot me purse at 'ome!" stuff like that…I mean that she even forgot 'oo 'er daughta' was a' one point! So I go an' try ta get her inta a 'ospital, bu' they won't admit'er! Instead, th' next day, Mista' Fogg came ova' wit' a whole band o' people, and they locked 'er up in Bedlam!

I nodded, taking careful notes in my head.

"Well that 'bout put me ova' th' edge, an' I was 'bout ta go afta' 'er, bu' then as they was takin' 'er away, I 'eard 'er shout, "Take care o' Johanna, fo' me, Nellie!". Me soft 'eart broke. So I stayed behind. 'Bout that time was when me dear Albert died."

"Who was Albert?" I asked.

"Oh Albert? 'E was me husband. A wond'a'ful man, 'e was. Always the'a fo' me…was a sad day when 'e died."

"Oh I'm sorry, Mrs. Lovett. How did he die?"

"Th' doctors said it was some fancy thing…in short, they called it a 'eart attack. Said it was cause 'e was so fat.

"Well anyways, I took in little Johanna, fed 'er, bathed 'er, tried ta be as motherly as I could. I'was 'ard, it was. Didn't 'ave me 'usband supportin' me, an' I hadn't th' slightest clue 'ow ta be a mother in th' first place!

"'Bout two or three months lata', Beadle Bamford comes 'round an' tells me that th' judge was comin' ta take th' girl in…an' that the'a wasn't anythin' I could do 'bout it. So I let 'em. A few days lata', 'e came an' took 'er. That was th' last I eva' 'eard of 'er.

"So me life went on, 'cept it wasn't normal, mind you. I was alone, this time, and been alone eva' since. Then, 'bout three or four years lata', Lucy comes back. She look 'orrible, an' is nothin' like she was. She'd gone completely mad, ya see. She came up ta me, looked at me funny, then off she went! I 'aven't seen 'er fo' years."

I nodded, and it was silent for a little while. "What did Lucy look like?" I don't know why I asked. My mouth was working faster than my mind then.

Mrs. Lovett sighed. "Don't remember now, Vicki. 'T's been so long…" Suddenly, her head snapped up, and she gave me a fierce glare. The glare in itself was enough to terrify me. But her words were what scared me the most.

"If I _eva'_ 'ear that you've gone an' told Mista' Todd, I'll wring your pretty little neck, an' that'd be th' end of ya! I'm very serious 'ere, Vicki. Mista' T can neva' know. Do I make meself clear?"

I nodded, my eyes wide and frightened. Hearing this coming from the seemingly sweet Mrs. Lovett almost made me think that a furious Mr. Todd would be safer to cower behind.

She seemed satisfied with my answer, because the next thing I knew, she was smiling and happy again, and busy as ever making a mess in my nice clean kitchen.

"Well! I don't think I've ever seen such a clean ki'chen 'afore! Why, I'm not even sure that Queen Victoria 'erself has a cleana' ki'chen!" She exclaimed before pulling out the supplies for her pies.

I managed to smile weakly. My mind was elsewhere. So Lucy Barker was alive? And Mr. Todd didn't know? My, this was certainly getting interesting…

"So, eh, wot's your story, Vicki?" Mrs. Lovett asked out-of-the-blue.

My head snapped up. "Me?" I asked. She nodded. "Well, I'm afraid my story's not nearly as interesting as, say, Mr. Todd's or yours, Mrs. Lovett."

The baker chuckled, and said, "That's okay, dearie. I'm jus' curious, 's'all."

I sat down in a chair and folded my hands across my lap. Where would I begin? When I arrived in London? Leaving London? The boarding house? Before that? Yes, my beginning seemed an adequate beginning.

"Well," I began. "To start off with, I suppose I should name my family. Let's see…there was father, John, mother, Mary Elisabeth, and my two brothers and sister: Bartholomew, Matthew, and Charlotte. We lived in my father's mansion in the upper city. It was a very lovely home…" I trailed off. So many memories came, flooding my brain.

"Wot 'appened then, Vicki?" Mrs. Lovett asked.

I looked up at her and began my tale. I won't fill in the details here, because it is growing very late and I am getting very tired very quickly. Perhaps another time, when I'm not as weary.

On the matter of finding out the rest of Mr. Todd's past…I suppose I should get his side of the story… Perhaps speaking with Mr. Todd won't be as bad as I think it might be… but, then again, I've been wrong before.

But my goal lies on the line, and so, I must try.

To be continued...

_I won't even explain. Just press dat button and review, pwetty pweeeeeaaaasee!_ ~dangrgurl~


	5. December 3rd, 1846

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except for Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and whoever else helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

_Hmm...Even without the songs in it, this chapter was still really long...at least to me. ^_^ Onward! ~you know who I am by now~_

**4 – December 3****rd****, 1846 – Thursday**

Mr. Todd is so… so… infuriating, to say the least. He has not touched me again – well, aside from grabbing my arm in that death grip of his to hurry me – but the little things he does maddens me so!

He paces until very late at night, deep in thought, I'm assuming. But, despite his motives for pacing for so long, he still keeps me awake at night, and I am nearly fed up with it! His patience could use some work as well… but that is aside from the point.

He wanted to go see some Italian – Eyetalian, is how Mrs. Lovett pronounced the word, I believe; she is such a strange woman – who was selling some product in the street. The barber was the one who woke Mrs. Lovett and me up to get ready an hour after dawn. How long he'd been awake before that, I don't even want to think about.

While Mrs. Lovett and I were getting ready as fast as we possibly could, he kept pacing and occasionally pounding on our doors shouting, "Hurry, woman! We 'ave no time for your dallying!"

I had just begun to put on the many layers of my dress when he started getting impatient. It doesn't really take long for him to get impatient… I'm not sure why I was surprised when he started pounding on my door.

Mrs. Lovett wouldn't reply when Mr. Todd beat on her door, but every time he did that to me, I called back, "Patience is a virtue, Mr. Todd. You would do well to learn that. You will wait, like the gentleman you are supposed to be, until I am ready to leave."

Of course, he didn't listen, and the pounding on my door soon became more frequent than the pounding on Mrs. Lovett's door.

After I'd pinned up my hair, I donned a touring hat that matched my dress perfectly. Even though the sun was covered by clouds, a proper lady should never go out without her hat. And finally, my shoes and a pair of lace gloves went on.

'Splendid!' was my thought when I looked at myself in a mirror. I then sighed and faced the door, ready to leave with Mrs. Lovett – who'd I'd imagined was finished dressing ages ago – and Mr. Todd.

I'm sure you could imagine my frustration when I got out before than the baker.

Mr. Todd stared at me for a good minute, scrutinizing my dress, and making me rather uncomfortable, before pounding on Mrs. Lovett's door once again. He shouted, "Mrs. Lovett, if you are not out 'ere in one minute, Miss Taylor and I will leave without you!"

Well, I'm glad that he at least included me in that statement, I thought.

Not even a second after he had finished saying it, Mrs. Lovett stepped out, not looking very happy at all. She was wearing a brown and red fur lined dress, with gloves to match. She had her hair pinned up in its usual messy way, but had adorned a matching hat and necklace.

'She must really fancy brown', I thought. She wore the same colors – brown and red – yesterday as well. And the day before that. And…the day before that…

Mr. Todd examined her briefly, nodded curtly to both of us, then walked briskly out the door, not bothering to give us a single compliment. Such a gentleman, indeed! A _proper_ man would at least tell a woman he knows that she looks lovely in what she wears. But, then again, Mr. Todd isn't a _true_ gentleman, is he?

Mrs. Lovett and I followed Mr. Todd, who was very close to running as he went on. Mrs. Lovett and I actually had to pick up our dresses and run after him, he was walking so fast! I am very surprised we weren't ostracized from England, right then and the'a.

We entered the busy St. Dunstan's market. That seems to be the only familiar thing about London now. It was just as chaotic as it was so many years ago, when mother used to take me and my younger sister shopping, after father was sent away, but only because she couldn't leave us by ourselves. It isn't such a fond memory, but it is a memory nonetheless of my family.

We caught up with Mr. Todd after a while. His face was set in grim determination. I knew better than to talk to him then, but Mrs. Lovett, apparently, did not.

"Mista' T! Slow down! I can 'ardly walk wit' you movin' so fast!"

"Quiet," he muttered.

But Mrs. Lovett didn't seem to understand the first time. "'Onestly, Mista' T – can't you be considerate enough to slow down even a little fo' us women? We can't move as fast as you can, mind you. Mista' T, slow down!"

He stopped suddenly and swerved to face Mrs. Lovett. "Silent!" he commanded harshly.

No more was needed to be said. Mrs. Lovett was quiet for awhile, and her petition was still unheard by Mr. Todd. We soon fell behind again, irritating me further.

Summoning both my courage and pride, I ran to catch up with him, leaving poor Mrs. Lovett behind, and hissed, "Mr. Todd, if you don't slow your pace this instant, I can assure you that there will be dire consequences."

He glanced over at me. He seemed…amused. "Oh really, Miss Taylor? Pray tell, what would you do that would have such terrible consequences?"

I only grinned furtively and pulled my collar down to reveal the clear scab, that we both knew would surely scar, that his 'friend' gave me.

"An' what makes you think tha' they'll believe tha' I did that to you, Miss Taylor?" he asked with a frown. By now he'd stopped.

"Think about it, Mr. Todd," I replied, placing a hand on my hip. "A barber, new to town, no known records of ever being there. No one knows who he is, nor what his motives are. A woman – a proper lady, at that – goes into his shop – probably looking for her husband or brother or uncle or whoever – who was just there, and comes out with her neck bleeding and her lovely blue skirt in shreds. A wound deep enough to leave a permanent reminder of her close encounter with death. I think the judges will believe me over you, Mr. Todd."

It was mostly a lie, I knew – I have, nor have ever had, a husband – but my threat worked. By the time I'd finished, Mrs. Lovett had caught up to us, and Mr. Todd had managed to narrow his eyes to the tiniest slits I have ever seen in my life.

I smirked at him, dusting imaginary dirt off my sleeve and continued, "Now, Mr. Todd; if you would be _so_ kind as to slow down for us…"

His eyes went even narrower as he growled, "Very well, Miss Taylor." He then started off again, but at a noticeably slower pace. Mrs. Lovett and I caught up to him with ease.

"Blasted girl…" I heard him mutter as he walked on. My grin grew wider.

"Wot did ya say to make 'im slow down some?" Mrs. Lovett asked me quietly.

I searched my mind, trying to come up with a good excuse. I said, "Let's just say, Mrs. Lovett, that kindness can only be replaced with kindness. And he was indebted to me." That was a true statement, after all. I never turned him in for cutting me – and probably never will – and in return, he slowed when I asked him to. Now we're even.

"Are you absolutely _sure_ that he's 'ere today, Mrs. Lovett?" I heard Mr. Todd whisper to Mrs. Lovett. It sounded more of a hiss, though, than a whisper.

"'E's 'ere every Thursday. Eyetalian. All th' rage, 'e is," she replied in whisper. They obviously thought that I couldn't hear them. "Best barber in London, they say."

"Not for long," Mr. Todd mumbled under his breath. I don't think Mrs. Lovett caught it, but I certainly did.

What in the world did he mean, I thought. I was about to find out.

We neared a traveling stage, covered in many colourful signs that seemed far too cheery for the gloomy London weather today. This, apparently, was Sweeney's destination, because he slowed when we got close enough.

A large sign above a crate full of bottles read, 'Pirelli's Miracle Elixir'. Another sign, one opposite of the first sign, read, 'Signor Adolfo Pirelli – Haircutter to His Royal Majesty, the King of Naples'.

A loud banging interrupted my thoughts. A young lad – no older than thirteen, probably, although he is a little small for his age – was stomping around on the stage, beating on a small drum with a stick.

When he put it down, he said in a loud voice – loud enough for everyone to hear, "Ladies an' gentlemen, may I 'ave your attention please! Is your 'air in shambles? Always seems ta be runnin' away an' gone missin'?"

Most everyone's ears perked up. "Well, ladies an' gentlemen, from now on, you can all waken a'tease! For I'll show you all a miracle, ladies an' gentlemen, that no one 'as eva' seen 'afore! Ya see, me 'ead used ta be as bald as a baby's rump, bu' now, thanks ta this wondrous new elixir…"

With a grand flourish, the boy threw his hat off, revealing a mountain of bright blonde hair. The people clapped for the lad's efforts.

"Wot did this, you may ask? T'was Pirelli's Miracle Elixir, ladies an' gentlemen! Was it quick, you may ask? Did it in a tick, jus' as it should!"

"That's likely," I muttered to myself. I glanced over at the bottles. What they had in them, I didn't even want to know. Mrs. Lovett, as well as a few other people around me, heard my statement, and chuckled. The lad paid no attention.

The lad spotted a bald man in the front and rushed towards him, carrying a bottle of… whatever that stuff was. "'Ow 'bout a bottle, mista'? Only costs a penny! Guaranteed!"

He put a few drops of the yellow liquid on the man's head and had the man start rubbing it in. He smelled it, and grimaced. I don't blame him. That stuff smelled dreadful!

"Well, sir? Does Pirelli's stimulate th' growth? I can promise you this, sir: 'T's unique! Rub it in for a minute ev'ry day, an' then you'll 'ave ta thin it a'least once a week!"

The foul odor permeated the air, causing me to cringe. Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett smelled it as well. Suddenly, I saw them give each other knowing and then joined in.

"Pardon me, ma'am!" Mr. Todd said loudly to Mrs. Lovett. "Do you know wot is that _awful_ stench?"

"Is the'a an open drain nea'by?" Mrs. Lovett continued? The baker waved one gloved hand in front of her nose, while the barber scrunched up his nose. The crowd smelled the air and began to murmur.

Starting to look nervous, the boy tried to gain the crowd's attention again. "Buy Pirelli's Miracle Elixir! Even if you're jus' plain bald, this stuff is guaranteed ta make your 'ead sprout luscious curls! Try it! When they see 'ow thick it is, you can 'ave your pick of th' girls, sirs!"

A bottle of the solution was passed to us. Mr. Todd and I sniffed it. It was worse than the already foul odor in the air! It smelled like… like… well, week old urine, to be quite blatant. It also had a slight ink smell to it. But, either way, it was awful.

He looked at me. "Wanna buy a bottle, missus?" I quickly shook my head.

"What is this?" Mr. Todd exclaimed, examining the bottle.

"Smells like…ew!" Mrs. Lovett cried, smelling the yellow liquid. "Ugh! Wouldn't touch it if I was you, dear," she said to a man close by. He nodded, passing on the bottle to the next person.

"This is urine!" Mr. Todd said loudly. "Urine and ink!"

"Try Pirelli's!" the flustered boy said quickly. "It'll activate them roots fo' sure!"

Mr. Todd turned to another man nearby. "Keep it off your boots!" he warned. "It'll eat 'em right through!"

"Get Pirelli's!" the lad nearly shouted. "Ladies seem to love this stuff–"

"Flies do too!" Mrs. Lovett interjected. I couldn't suppress the giggle that came from my throat.

Suddenly, from behind a curtain on the stage, burst the Italian himself. He was just as brightly dressed as his stand, and looked rather ridiculous.

In his think Italian accent, he cried loudly, "I am Adolfo Pirelli – da King of da Barbers, and da barber of Kings! E buon giorno, signore e signori!" He blew a kiss to a young woman in the front. The woman looked as if she would swoon. I rolled my eyes.

"And I – da so-famous Pirelli – I a-wish to a-know who has- da a-nerve to say dat my elixir is 'urine and ink'!"

The entire street was silent for a moment. I held my breath, hoping that Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett wouldn't do anything daft. I thought that all this would pass by…until Mr. Todd announced, "I do," drawing the attention of everyone. I sighed.

"I'm Mr. Sweeney Todd, of Fleet Street," he continued with a wry look in his eye as he approached the stage. "I have opened a bottle of Pirelli's Elixir, and I say to you, that is nothing but an arrant fraud – concocted from urine and ink.

Pirelli gave an irritated smile to the crowd as Mr. Todd continued, "Furthermore, _signor_…I have serviced no kings, yet I wager that I can shave a cheek with ten times more dexterity, than any street mountebank."

He pulled out two of his razors from their halters on his hips, which he had hidden beneath his coat, revealing his 'friends' to the crowd.

"Do you see these razors?" He held them up higher as Pirelli leaned in closer to examine them. "I lay them against £5. You are no match, sir. Either accept my challenge…or reveal yourself as a sham." I arched an eyebrow at the bet. I had no idea how good Mr. Todd is at his job, but I knew I was about to find out.

Pirelli grinned widely and replied, "You hear dis foolish man? Now please! You will see how he will-a regret-a his-a folly!" He tossed aside his cape with a ridiculous flourish, then stamped twice on the stage. "To-by!" he shouted, and the lad with the blonde hair immediately ran up and took Pirelli's things, then came back and moved a large, elaborate chair to the front stage.

"Who's for a free shave?" Mr. Todd asked the crowd. The men cheered, and he picked a man, as did Pirelli.

As the men came up with a chair for Mr. Todd's patron, the barber turned and asked, "Will Beadle Bamford be the judge?"

The Beadle? I hadn't even noticed that the Beadle was there. What was the Beadle doing there? Shouldn't he have been with the Judge? I thought.

"Glad as _always_ to oblige my friends and neighbors," he replied with a toothy grin, coming up to join Mr. Todd and Pirelli on the stage. When both patrons were seated, Pirelli threw an Italian flag styled apron over his man, while Mr. Todd threw a plain white one over his.

"Ready?" the Beadle asked.

"A-ready!" Pirelli chirped. "Ready," Mr. Todd replied quietly.

"The fastest, smoothest shave, is the winner!" the large man exclaimed to the audience. He blew a whistle, and the contest began.

Both men began to prepare; they both began stropping their razors. While Mr. Todd's movements were slow and deliberate, Pirelli rushed, nicking poor Toby every time he swiped the sharp blade across the strop. I felt bad for the lad, being so abused.

When Pirelli finished stropping, Toby grabbed a cloth and kneeled on the ground, ready to wipe Pirelli's razor when needed, ignoring his hand.

"Now, signore e signori, I mix- da lather. But first, you must realize dat da man who is shavin'k dis man is da man who has had-a da glory to shave-a da Pope!" Pirelli bragged. Toby somehow produced a scroll with the Pope's picture on it, and the crowd laughed. The scroll read, 'Thanks for da Shave; The Pope'.

"Ridiculous," I muttered. "The Pope wouldn't be so daft as to endorse a drawing of himself as thanks for a simple shave!" Mrs. Lovett chuckled again at my comment.

"To shave-a da face, and to cut-a da hair," Pirelli said, drawing even more attention to himself. "It requires da grace, and da talent. For if-a you slip, you nick da skin beyond-a repair!" He started shaving the man's face.

I flinched every time Pirelli's razor made a swipe. Now, I know that I no nothing about shaving a man's face, but to me, it looked like Pirelli was pressing entirely to hard on the poor man's neck. I was half expecting Pirelli to slip and slice the man's neck wide open in front of everyone.

Mr. Todd, on the other side of the stage, hadn't even started mixing his lather yet.

"To shave-a da face, it requires da heart…not just-a da flash… It take-a da passion for da art!" The Italian glanced warily over at Mr. Todd, who was still inspecting his 'friend'. Pirelli visibly relaxed while I tensed.

"Da art to shave-a da face and to trim-a da beard…it is a talent give to me by God!"

Pirelli made a Sign of the Cross religiously. I seriously doubted that he was religious at all. Mr. Todd finally began to put shaving lather on his man's face.

"It take-a da expertise! And it take-a da wits! "It take-a da will to take-a da trouble!" Mr. Todd started examining his man's face. "It take-a da pace, and it take-a da GRACE!"

The Italian shouted the word. In the meantime, during that last sentence, Mr. Todd shaved the man's face with astounding dexterity and amazing quickness. My mouth gaped the whole time.

He stepped aside to reveal his patron. His face was completely smooth, without a single nick in it! The Beadle looked over the man's face.

"The winner, is Todd!" he announced.

To be continued...

_PLEASE REVIEW!!! *Ahem* Sorry. Couldn't resist! ~dangrgurl~_


	6. December 3rd, 1846 Second Entry

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except for Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and whoever else helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

_.....Nope. Still got nothin'. Onward!_

**5 – December 3****rd****, 1846 – Thursday; Second Entry**

The crowd applauded and cheered for Mr. Todd, and even I couldn't help but join in. I was very impressed. I never would have guessed that Mr. Todd was so good at what he did!

Mr. Todd received the ₤5 from Adolfo Pirelli, who was so angry, his face was turning a rather nice shade of red. And I'm positive I could see a bit of steam coming out of his ears.

But then, as Mr. Todd began to walk off the stage, Pirelli slapped Toby viciously, nearly knocking him to the ground. The boy ran into the back room, where Pirelli followed. And after that, I tried my hardest to tune out the shouting and sobbing coming from back there.

I shook my head and took my hand away from my mouth – how it got there, I haven't an idea – then looked over at Mrs. Lovett, who murmured to Mr. Todd, "Suppose it's jus' me gentle 'eart, but I do 'ate ta see a boy treat'd like that."

I, for one, wholeheartedly agree with her.

Mrs. Lovett turned and began happily chatting away with a man, who had congratulated Mr. Todd on his victory. She was telling him about Mr. Todd's shoppe above her own, I am sure. Mr. Todd soon dismissed himself to speak with the Beadle as well. Probably referring the large man to his shoppe.

"S'cuse me, ma'am," a man said to me, drawing my attention away.

"Yes?" I asked. "How may I help you?"

"Do you know whe'a that man's shoppe is?" he asked, pointing to Mr. Todd. "I saw 'im shave me brother up the'a, an' I'd surely be int'a'ested in goin' the'a."

"Why, yes, I do, actually," I replied politely. "His shoppe is at 186 Fleet Street, right next to St. Dunstan's Church. It's above Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Shoppe."

"Thank ya kindly, ma'am!" he said, before hurrying off.

I smiled after the man. Such a lovely man; so nice and polite…even though his dialect was less than desired.

Suddenly, I felt something being pressed into my hand and hot breath on my ear.

"Keep it. I 'ave no use for it," Mr. Todd growled in my ear from behind me. As he walked away, I looked into my hand. There lay the ₤5 that he'd won. I was confused, but happy, nonetheless. I shrugged and put the money in my small purse.

While we walked back to the Mrs. Lovett's pie shoppe and Mr. Todd's barber shoppe, I noticed that Mr. Todd walked at a considerably slower pace, letting us walk alongside him. And I also noticed that every time I looked up, he was staring at me – or rather, glaring at me.

He was still mad at me for getting even with him.

I chuckled, and he snapped, "Wot?"

"Oh, nothing," I answered, still grinning stupidly.

Mrs. Lovett was chatting happily, something about birds, but Mr. Todd and I paid no attention. I think that while it was alright for me to be ignoring her, it was not alright for Mr. Todd to be ignoring her. She _was_ speaking to him, after all.

"Mista' T, are you listenin' ta me?" she asked eventually.

"Of course," came his monotonous reply. I had half a mind to either laugh at him or slap him across the cheek. I did neither, of course.

While Mrs. Lovett continued talking about… whatever, I quietly asked Mr. Todd, "How did you do it?"

"Wot?" he responded.

"When you shaved that man… How did you do it so quickly? And without cutting him at all?"

He glanced over at me, a dark brow raised slightly in amusement. "It is just as Mr. Pirelli said. It is a talent given to me by God."

"I never thought you a religious man, Mr. Todd," I quipped softly, so Mrs. Lovett couldn't hear.

"I'm not," he growled.

Confused, I began, "But—"

"Silence, woman."

I glared at him, but didn't argue. I wasn't in the mood to fight…and lose. "Of course, Mr. Todd. Forgive me," I muttered. In return, he murmured something unintelligible. I think it was a, "Fine".

We neared the pie shoppe, and Mr. Todd fled up the stairs to his shoppe. I suppose he was eager for customers to arrive, and didn't want to waste any more time.

And speaking of wasting time, I thought. I had to get cleaning, otherwise, I'd never finish!

I changed as quickly as I could into another cotton dress and began my work. The cabinets were done, so I started on the counters (again), sink, and walls. I used many, if not all, of the rags, and by the time I was halfway done, I had used every rage at least twice, and the water in my bucket was black with filth.

There was one particular spot on the counter that was very difficult to remove. I think I accidentally bored a small dip in the wood by scrubbing so hard!

By noon, I had most of the walls done. Or, rather I got the first layer of grime off it.

* * *

**December 8****th****, 1846 – Tuesday**

It has been a while, I know. But I have been very busy. The kitchen is completely clean, and I also finished cleaning the living room and Mrs. Lovett's room.

And thankfully, Mrs. Lovett has begun picking up some cleaning habits. She no longer just leaves everything out. She actually has begun putting her mess away and wipes the counters before she leaves! Thank God!

All I have left to do is my room and possibly Mr. Todd's shoppe.

Mrs. Lovett had mentioned earlier in the week that she might have me clean his place some, what with all the customers he's planning on having. He's had to wait over the weekend before he could officially open shoppe, and I feel sorry for the man. He's waited for so long to open his barber shoppe again, but he's only had to wait longer from the weekend.

He's even put a new sign next to his shoppe door. It says, 'Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlor'. Quite nice, if you ask me.

Mrs. Lovett has been helping him with his shoppe while I cleaned hers. I haven't yet seen the room yet, but I'm not so sure that I want to. Mrs. Lovett has been sparing no mercy on the poor man when it came to talking, however, while she was cleaning. I can't see how Mr. Todd could stand to be in the same room as her!

Speaking, or rather writing, of Mrs. Lovett, I saw her going out the shoppe with a large, old, rickety, and very tattered chair. Once again curious, I rushed over to help her carry the cumbersome object.

"Oh! Thank ya, dear!" she exclaimed when I came up, relieving her of some of the weight.

"Of course, Mrs. Lovett," I replied as we carried the chair up to Mr. Todd's shoppe. We got to the top and set it down. Mrs. Lovett then slapped a hand to her pale forehead and nearly shouted, "I fo'got th' stew!"

She turned towards me. "Vicki, dear, do ya think ya can prepa' Mista' Todd's lunch? I 'ave some stew on th' stove an' some bread on th' counter. Also, can ya put an apple on th' tray as well? An' make a pot o' tea?"

I shook my head, chuckling at her, and answered, "Of course, Mrs. Lovett! No trouble at all. Are you sure you can get that?"

"Yes, yes, love. T's not 'ard now that t's up 'ere," she said, shooing me away teasingly with her hand. "Thank ya so much, Vicki! You're a saint, ya re!"

I smiled and went back down the stairs. The smell of delicious stew assaulted my nose as soon as I went back in the pie shoppe. Strange, I thought. I hadn't noticed it before. Maybe because I hadn't had a breath of fresh air for the last few hours, I hadn't noticed when the scent changed.

Perhaps she can make everything _except_ for meat pies, I thought with a grin. Taking the sizzling stew off of the hot stove and putting it on the counter on top of a towel, I ladled out some stew in a bowl and placed it on a tray.

I heard Mrs. Lovett talking upstairs to a pacing Mr. Todd.

"'T's not much of a chair, but it'll do," she said. "Was me poor Albert's chair. Sit in't all day long, he did, after 'is leg gave out with th' gout."

"Why doesn't the Beadle come? 'Before th' week is out'… That's wot he said," I heard Mr. Todd say.

"Well, 'oo says th' week is out? 'T's only Tuesday," she responded.

I heard a loud clatter, making me jump a little. Mr. Todd obviously threw something.

"Easy now, love!" Mrs. Lovett cooed. "Wot's your rush? Jus' 'ang in the'a fo' a little long'a. Jus' wait."

I placed two dinner rolls onto the tray and put on some tea, slowly, so I could listen to her. Oh what a terrible person I am! Eavesdropping when it isn't my business. Mother would be ashamed…but I can't help myself.

"Jus'…let it brew, Mista' T. Once it bubbles over, wot'cha gonna do? Jus' wait."

Let what brew? I thought. Maybe this will be something I can add to my list of things to get answers for. The teapot whistled, so I finished the tea.

I heard Mr. Todd stomp away from Mrs. Lovett. The baker continued nervously, "Ya know Mista' T, I been thinkin'… Don't'cha think that some flowa's might make this place a tad betta'? Maybe…daisies?"

Daisies? Up there? Perhaps… It would depend on what color they were. I grabbed an apple and looked at it. It was a green apple. I frowned. No, I thought. Green wouldn't look good in there either…

Mr. Todd said something else. I could hear the gravity in his voice, but couldn't make out the words. I heard the jingling of bells up there, which meant that Mr. Todd was going out to stand on the balcony. I was so tempted to poke my head out to hear a little better.

"Can't ya think o' nothin' else?" Mrs. Lovett asked, following him. "Always broodin' away on your wrongs, wot happened 'eaven knows 'ow many years ago! Come on." The bells jingled again; they were back inside.

"Slow down, love! Time flies by so fast! If ya jus' wait, it'll all come ta'geth'a! Don't ya know, you silly man, that half of the fun is ta plan th' plan! As th' old sayin' goes, 'All good things come ta those 'oo wait'."

'Patience is a virtue', came the statement that I had said last week. It was true. All good things come to those who wait. But, what plan? What are they up to? And yet another question that needs answering to add to my list.

"Maybe gillyflowa's…" Mrs. Lovett mused aloud. "…'stead of daises…I dunno though… Wot do you think, Mista' Todd?"

Hmm… Perhaps not gillyflowers… Roses maybe? Roses are always pretty. And they would look wonderful in that room. If I've learned anything from Mrs. Lovett, it's that brown and red go together wonderfully. And since Mr. Todd's room is mostly brown wood with just the smallest splashes of yellow, perhaps the red roses would look rather nice.

In fact, his room would look a thousand times better if he put a little more red – in general – in it…

I stepped outside with the tray of Mr. Todd's lunch, and nearly ran into someone.

"Oh! Pardon me, sir!" I exclaimed, trying to balance the tray again.

"No, I am so very sorry, ma'am! I wasn't watching where I was going," he replied in a higher pitched voice that did not match his appearing age. The young man looked about in his early late adolescent years to early twenties.

He extended his hand, then quickly drew it back when he noticed the tray in my hands. "Uh, Anthony Hope, ma'am," he introduced himself, bowing slightly. He pronounced his name as 'Antony'. How strange.

I nodded my head politely. "Victoria Taylor, sir."

He nodded and started running up the steps as I followed him. I didn't have a clue what the big rush was until later.

He got up there, and noticed me going in the same direction as he, and asked, "You know Mr. Todd?"

"Yes. We are neighbors. I work for his landlady," I replied, grinning at the memory of Mr. Todd's and my 'pleasant' first meeting. But it wasn't a fond grin, I will tell you.

He turned and burst through the door, eager to meet with Mr. Todd. I soon got there myself. But it wasn't Mr. Todd he saw when he opened the door. Mrs. Lovett stood there, her arms crossed

"Oh, I'm sorry. Excuse me…" he stammered, waiting for the baker to introduce herself.

"Mrs. Lovett, sir," the baker responded. She didn't seem thrilled to see him.

"A pleasure, ma'am," he said.

He turned around, and saw Mr. Todd standing behind the door. What he was doing there, I don't even want to know.

"Mr. Todd, the'a's a girl who needs my help – such a sad girl, and lonely, but beautiful, too, and—" His words were very rushed and somewhat panicky.

"Slow down, son," Mr. Todd interjected, coming out from behind the door and leading Anthony to the chair.

Anthony took a breath and restarted. "Yes, I'm sorry. This girl has a guardian who keeps her locked away, but then, this morning, she dropped this."

He produced a small, brass key from his pocket. I knew the style of it right away. It was an uncommon type of key – one that was made specially for the rich and well renowned.

"Surely a sign that Johanna wants me to help her – that's her name, Johanna – and Turpin is her guardian. He's a judge of some sort…"

Rage flew through me. Turpin??? Every time I hear that name, my blood boils and my fists curl. I loathe that man with a passion that I fear to write of, lest I tear this book to shreds with my pen. My face twisted up into pure anger while Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd seemed to exchange a knowing glance.

"Once he goes to court, I'm going to slip into the house and release her and beg her to come away with me. Tonight."

"Oh, this is very romantic," Mrs. Lovett said wistfully.

"Yes, but I don't know anyone in London, you see" he responded. "And I need somewhe'a safe to bring her 'til I've hired a coach to take us away."

His eyes turned to pleading as he said to Mr. Todd, "If I could keep her he'a – just for an hour or two – I'd be forever in your debt."

Mr. Todd stood stone still, his face pensive. Mrs. Lovett answered for him. "Bring 'er 'ere, love."

"Thank you, ma'am," Anthony said to the baker. "Mr. Todd?"

The barber only nodded.

Anthony jumped forward and grabbed Mr. Todd's hand, who did not seem happy at that, shaking it vigorously while saying, "Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you, my friend! Thank you, ma'am!" He then took off as quickly as he came.

Once Anthony was gone, I no longer felt as safe as I did before, for some reason or another, so I quickly set the tray of, not hot but now lukewarm, food on a table nearby. I caught a glance of two faded pictures of a woman holding her child.

I resolved to ask Mr. Todd about that later.

Mrs. Lovett stared blankly at me, and Mr. Todd glared, as I nodded my head wordlessly and left. Outside, I breathed a sigh of relief, but my emotions nearly immediately turned back to rage.

The Judge! That… blasted man! Mrs. Lovett had mentioned that Turpin was related to Lucy Barker's suicide and for taking Johanna as his ward. I had been angry then, but was too preoccupied to think on it more. I was seething as his name echoed through my head.

And it still rings even now as I am looking out the window.

Wait… There is someone coming. Someone different. Actually, two people.

It's that boy Toby and… Adolfo Pirelli? What could they want? Pirelli's face is set in mischievous determination.

Something is not right.

To be continued...

_Hey you. Yeah, you. Ya know, you who's just staring at the computer screen. You see that button right below these here words? Press that...I dare ya. :) ~dangrgurl~_


	7. December 8th, 1846 Second Entry

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and whoever else helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

_...Still got nothin' to say except... Onward!_

**6 – December 8****th****, Tuesday; Second Entry**

That boy… I've never seen anyone drink so much!

Ah, once again, I am getting ahead of myself.

Signor Pirelli and Toby came earlier today. Nothing but trouble was in the Italian's eyes. He was shoving the boy along harshly as they walked – actually, nearly ran. As Pirelli and Toby began to ascend the stairs up to Mr. Todd's barber shoppe, Mrs. Lovett came down, blocking their way. I stepped outside to watch.

The Italian smiled politely and asked the baker, "Signora, is Mr. Todd at home?"

Mrs. Lovett grinned nicely, but her eyes were very suspicious of the other barber. "Playin' 'is trade upstairs." She looked down at the small boy. "Ooh, would ya look a'it, now!" Toby's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

Mrs. Lovett turned back to Pirelli and asked, "You wouldn't mind if I gave it a nice, juicy meat pie, would ya?"

The Italian was rapidly growing impatient. "Si, si, si, whatever you want," he snapped in his thick accent.

The baker stepped aside to let Pirelli through and grabbed Toby's hand. "Come on, lad. Your teeth are strong, I 'ope?"

As soon as they came in, Mrs. Lovett said, "Close th' door." She said it rather snappily, if you don't mind me saying. Toby obeyed instantly. "Get you a nice, lovely pie," she said, more to herself than anyone else.

She produced a plate from below the counter and blew the dust off of it. I folded my arms behind my back and gave her a sheepish smile when she glared at me. I'd forgotten about cleaning _under_ the counter. She dropped a pie onto the plate and said to Toby, who was still standing by the door, "Sit down! Make yourself comfy."

Toby ran and sat down on the bench and removed his hat, letting his long, blonde curls drop to his shoulders. "'Ere we are," she said, putting the plate in front of him. "Tuck in." She gave me another glare. I instantly ran and got the cleaning supplies, and began scrubbing under that blasted counter as the baker sat down across from Toby.

The boy bit into his pie greedily, and I almost vomited on the spot.

"I like ta see a man wit' a 'ealthy appetite," Mrs. Lovett commented. "Reminds me of my dear Albert." She looked over at a portrait of a grotesquely obese man without any hair, aside from a mustache, that is. This, apparently, was her late husband.

"Liked to gorge himself to bloatation, 'e did. 'E didn't 'ave your nice 'ead o' hair, though."

Toby put down the pie long enough to say, "To tell th' truth, it gets awful 'ot." He pulled the wig off, revealing his shortly cropped, brown hair, and scratched his head.

Mrs. Lovett glanced up at the ceiling. I wonder what that was about.

"Oh, sorry ma'am!" Toby exclaimed, looking down at me. I'd poked my head out from behind the bottom of the counter to look at the picture, so he saw me. "Didn't even see ya the'a!"

I giggled lightly and said, "Victoria's my name, sir."

His cheeks turned slightly pink at 'sir'. "Tobias Ragg, is mine, ma'am, ev'ryone calls me Toby." He is quite polite. A real joy to speak to, despite how much he drinks. But I'll get to that later.

Mrs. Lovett threw me, yet another warning glare, so I disappeared behind the counter again and continued scrubbing my arms off.

We were all silent for awhile. Mrs. Lovett got up to help me with the organizing – to keep herself busy, I think.

Suddenly, a loud thump was heard upstairs. Then another. Then another. It sounded as if people were having a vicious fight! "What in th' world?" I exclaimed.

Mrs. Lovett then began to pound things around. "My, my, my!" she said. "Always work to be done." I shook my head. This was all too strange for me, I thought.

"'Spic 'n span', that's me motto," she continued.

What??? Spic and span! That ought to be _my_ motto! I was the one on the floor cleaning the insides of the counter, not her! That is what I thought, and still think.

Instead of opening my mouth, I only rolled my eyes.

There was one more thump, then silence upstairs.

"So, um, how'd you end up wit' that dreadful Eyetalian?" Mrs. Lovett asked Toby.

"Got me from th' work'ouse," he answered. "Been the'a since I was born."

The workhouse? Poor lad. I've never been to the workhouse, or the orphanage, being the more common name, but the stories I heard while in that boarding school… It was enough to give me nightmares for weeks at a time.

"Oh gosh! 'E's got an appointment wit' 'is tailor!" he shouted, stuffing more pie into his mouth before jumping up. "If 'e's late, 'e'll blame me!"

He started to run out the door. "Wait!" Mrs. Lovett hissed. Without thinking, I jumped up and bolted after him for the baker.

He and I ran up the stairs. I tried to grab him by the collar, but he slipped from my grasp every time. Toby ran into the shoppe and said, "Signor! You got an appointment…"

He went in while I stood in the doorway. It didn't seem like anyone was the'a at the moment, but I looked around and saw Mr. Todd calmly pouring himself some tea from the kettle I left up there earlier.

"Signor Pirelli's been called away," Mr. Todd said. "Better run after him."

Called away, I thought. I hadn't heard him come down. Nor did he come for the boy. That didn't seem likely to me. But I didn't dare speak out against the barber.

But that didn't stop Toby. "No, sir. I should stay 'ere, or it'll be a lashin'. 'E's a great one for th' lashins'." The boy sat on the chest by the door.

Mr. Todd followed Toby with his eyes, then glanced over at me briefly. But certainly long enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Suddenly, Mr. Todd became… how do I say it… nervous? He seemed rather… nervous for a tick or two.

"So," he said. "Mrs. Lovett gave you a pie, did she?"

Toby grinned widely. "She's a real lady."

Mr. Todd smiled as well, although it seemed very fake to me. "That she is," he replied. I'd never seen him smile before. Even though that one was fake, a simple grin made him look ten times better.

He paused, glancing nervously down at something. If I had been on his other side, I would have been able to see what the barber was looking at, but I wasn't.

"But, if I know a growing boy, the'a's still room for more pie, eh?"

"Yes, sir," Toby replied.

"Then why don't you wait for your master downstairs?" Mr. Todd suggested, leading Toby towards me. "Be another pie in it for you, I'm sure."

"No, I should stay 'ere," was the boy's answer.

Mr. Todd seemed to be loosing either patience or excuses to get him out of there, because the next thing he said makes me want to kill him now.

"Tell you wot: why don't you tell Mrs. Lovett that I said to give you a nice big tot o' gin."

Toby's face instantly lit up as he exclaimed, "Thank you, sir!" He ran past me and down the stairs. I was about to throw Mr. Todd a suspicious glare before following him, the dratted barber slammed the door in my face as soon as the boy was out. Something is going on with Mr. Todd, I am sure of it.

And no matter what, I _will_ find out.

I made my way downstairs again and back into the pie shoppe. Mrs. Lovett's gaze towards me had softened somewhat, but then hardened again when I told her, "Mr. Todd says to give the lad a 'nice, _big_ tot o' gin'." I tried to mock Mr. Todd's voice when I said that.

She nodded and left to retrieve the alcohol. I got a small glass down from the cupboard, and when the baker returned, she poured the clear liquid into it.

I resumed my cleaning, and the same pattern of events happened over and over again. Gulp, pour, swipe of a rag. Gulp, pour, swipe of a rag. Again and again, over and over for at least a good thirty minutes.

He'd been chugging it, as he did the other glasses, like it were water. "You ought to slow down a bit, lad," she cautioned, leaning on her elbow. "It'll go straight to your 'ead."

"They used to give it ta us in th' workhouse so as we could sleep," he replied. "Not that you'd want to sleep in that place, ma'am."

Now that I think about it, it sounds like he says, 'mum' when he says, 'ma'am'. Very odd, I think.

"Not wit' th' things wot 'appen in th' dark."

"Tha's nice, dear," Mrs. Lovett replied distantly.

She must have been as tired as I was of listening to him drink it.

"Think I'll jus' pop in on Mista' Todd for a tick." She got up and put the cork back in the bottle. "You all right the'a?" she asked.

"Leave th' bottle," Toby said. Mrs. Lovett and I both rolled our eyes before she left.

Toby finished off his drink and I stood, stretching my back. We were silent for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say.

"So, uh, how old are you, Toby?" I asked, trying to start some conversation.

"I'm twelve, ma'am," he replied, trying to get the cork out of the gin bottle again. He looks younger than that, truth be told. I only nodded.

"'Ow old are you?" he asked, out of the blue.

I laughed, something I haven't done for some time, and answered, "Twenty-eight, lad. I'm gettin' to be an old lady, aren't I?"

"Oh, no, ma'am! You don't look it a'tall!"

I arched an eyebrow. "Out o' curiosity, ma'am… why aren't you married or th' like?" he asked.

I paused for a moment, then replied, "Well, I've been traveling a lot, lately. No time for romance or foolishness like that."

It was true, I have been traveling. There was no time for thoughts on settling down when I was so busy.

"So…we'a did'ja go?" he asked.

I thought for a second. "Well, I went to…I do believe nearly every continent there is! I saw many things."

"Like wot?"

"Well, I saw th' Great Wall of China over in Asia; I saw many exotic tribes in Africa. I saw th' mountains in Peru, South America, and th' humongous New York City in America. I even got to see th' Penal Colonies in Australia…what a dreaded place that was. I think th' only place I haven't been was Antarctica…"

I heard him groan quietly behind me and turned. He was trying to get the cork out of the bottle. When he finally gave up, he asked, "Can you 'elp me?"

I went over and opened it for him, although I can't say it was an easy task. Mrs. Lovett really stopped it up well!

Curiosity grabbed hold of me again, so I got myself a glass and poured some gin into it.

"I wonder what this tastes like," I pondered aloud.

I took a small taste and nearly choked. It burned and stung my throat as it went down, and burned my stomach and throat even after it was down. I don't think I've ever felt anything like that before.

I coughed though, very loudly, and nearly aspirated my saliva. As I continued coughing, Toby told me, "Tends to do that to ya. But, afta' ya get used to it, 't's not so bad."

I cleared my throat and nodded, tears beginning to well up from the burning sensation still lingering. I set the glass down and stood, holding this book in my arms as I now watch people pass by the shoppe outside.

Wait, Mrs. Lovett has come walking in rather hastily from the set of stairs behind us. She looks…nervous.

"'Ello, loves," she says. She sounds rather winded.

"Hello," I reply. "Where's th' fire?" I ask mischievously.

She looks over at me strangely and said, "Oh, nothin', dear. Mr. T's jus' got a customer, tha's all."

"Really? Who?" I ask her.

"Judge Turpin," she just says.

Judge Turpin???

To be continued...

_Hmmm...I've temporarily run out of snappy things to say to get you to push that lovely button down at the bottom of your screen. Oh well. Drop me a review please! ~dangrgurl~_


	8. December 9th, 1846

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and whoever else helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

_Okay, the 'Pretty Women' song in this chappy was really awkward as well. Please forgive me if it seems more awkward than what I already think it is. Anywho...Onward!_

**7 – December 9****th****, 1846 – Wednesday**

I… The judge… He…

…got away.

And Mr. Todd… He's such a…

I'm sorry. I'm not thinking quite clearly…

Let me gather my thoughts for a little while…

* * *

**December 10****th****, 1846 – Thursday**

Alright. I am well again… at least well enough to tell what happened. Quite a bit has happened, actually.

When Mrs. Lovett came down yesterday, announcing that Judge Turpin had come for a shave or whatnot, my mind began to race.

I thought, "Th' Judge! How am I going to get to him?"

I had never thought that that moment could come, but it did, and I was unprepared.

I had bought some sodium cyanide at an apothecary when I was in America some months ago, planning on using it for that very moment.

The whole plan seemed infallible: wait until the judge is finished with his shave, then invite him for a pie and a drink, poison his ale, and live life knowing that one of my life's missions is complete. Simple enough.

But that wasn't how it happened.

That boy, that young man, I mean, Anthony, whom I wrote about earlier… he seems to burst in at the most inopportune moments.

Let me elucidate the matter:

Mrs. Lovett stared at me as I tried to compose myself after she told me about the judge coming to meet with Mr. Todd. Although, she only seemed confused about something. I didn't ask.

She asked after a moment, "You feelin' well, love? You're all pale, like you've seen a ghost."

I shook my head, interrupting my plotting. I smiled as warmly as I could to my landlady. "Of course, Mrs.… er, Nellie. I was simply lost in thought."

"'Bout wot, dearie?" she pried.

"Oh, nothing, really," I lied as nonchalantly as I could. "I was only thinking of how pleased Mr. Todd must be for having th' well renowned Judge Turpin come by for a shave or whatnot."

Mrs. Lovett began to tidy up the pots and pans she'd gotten out earlier. "Yeah, 'e's _pleased_ all right," she murmured.

"Pardon?" I asked, almost wanting to hear it again.

She glanced up at me again. "Oh nothin'," she said very quickly.

She looked over at Toby, who was still there, drinking away. His eye lids were beginning to droop and his head lolling in every direction.

I couldn't help but chuckle quietly to myself at the lad. I heard Mrs. Lovett echo my amusement.

I turned and crossed my arms, frowning at the corner in the wall. I was nervous – terrified, really – and trying my best to keep myself from breathing too quickly, lest Mrs. Lovett be suspicious of my intent.

The last thing I want is to be sent to a prison for a charge of murder.

The cause, I think, would be just, considering what all Judge Turpin (ooh, just writing his name in my journal makes me want to spit!) has done to my family, and to others, it seems. I'm Mr. Todd would want revenge on the old fool, but, as the saying goes, 'ladies first'.

Oh… The thoughts running through my head… Mother – and Father – would be so ashamed of me. Things like this – murder, revenge, lying… this is all so foreign, but it is what must be done.

Right, back to yesterday. Forgive my ramblings…

I heard Mr. Todd greet the judge upstairs. I couldn't quite hear what the barber was saying, but he sounded rather pleasant.

When the judge replied, he sounded…unimpressed. I'm not saying that I don't agree with him. Mr. Todd's shoppe could use some tidying up.

Mrs. Lovett seemed disinterested in me, so she began to clean up the mess on the counter.

I strained my ears to hear. I know, I am terrible for eavesdropping on Mr. Todd and Judge Turpin, but if I was going to…do away with the man, I needed to know when he was coming down.

"'Tis your delight, sir, that's catching fire from one man to th' next!" Mr. Todd gushed.

The judge replied, "It's true that love can still make ones heart pound… What more can man require?"

"More than love, sir?" Mr. Todd asked.

"What's that?" asked the judge.

"Women," Mr. Todd answered.

"Ah, yes…women," Turpin sighed.

"Pretty women…"

My eyes widened at the thought and I suddenly felt like I could scream! Women? The atrocity of it! How dare they!

My temper flared. Only now do I realize that it was a meaningless waste of anger. But that is aside from the point.

"Mrs. Lovett, do you hear what they are saying?" I asked incredulously.

"Hm?" was her answer. I'd pulled her from one of her strange trances.

"Wot? Wot are they sayin'?" she asked, lifting her head up. Her once-beige cloth was now white with flour.

"They are…well, just listen," I replied, pointing to the ceiling.

"Pretty women…" Mr. Todd said. "Fascinating, aren't they? Sipping coffee…dancing… They're a wonder, aren't they? Whether they're sitting in th' window or standing on th' stairs… Something in them chills th' air around us… Pretty women…"

"Silhouetted…" Judge Turpin interjected. "Glancing… Breathing lightly… Pretty women…"

I glanced over at Mrs. Lovett, who – much to my displeasure – had this wistful look in here eyes. I glared at her, thankful that it went unnoticed.

Still, the men continued.

"Blowing out their candles…" Mr. Todd said.

"Or combing out their hair," said Turpin.

"Even when they leave you…they're still the'a… Pretty women… At their mirrors–"

"In their gardens!" Turpin interjected.

"Letter-writing–"

"Flower-picking!"

"Weather watching! How they man a man sing!" Mr. Todd exclaimed.

"Proof of heaven as you're living!" said the Judge.

Something flashed in th' corner of my eye. A person

No… It was Anthony. I raced to the window. And there he was, flying up the stairs.

He'll ruin everything! I thought.

Unbeknownst of his presence to the barber and judge upstairs, they continued until they were finally interrupted.

I won't bother writing it…all they did was keep repeating 'Pretty women' over and over again. It was enough to make my blood boil.

The singing suddenly cut off as I heard those annoying bells ring with the entry of Anthony.

The judge snarled something as he rose from the chair. I heard his footsteps creaking above Mrs. Lovett and I.

My breathing sped up as realization struck. The judge was going to get away.

The very next thing I knew, Judge Turpin was dashing down the stairs in a fury, and I was standing outside in his path.

"Move aside, ma'am," he said.

"Sir, wouldn't you care to come in for a meat pie, and, perhaps a drink?" I asked as sweetly as I could.

"No, ma'am. I have things that I must attend to elsewhere. Good day."

And with a slight shove of my shoulder… he was gone.

I heard Mr. Todd shout and saw Anthony follow Judge Turpin's path down the stairs.

But I didn't bother asking what was wrong. I ran past Mrs. Lovett inside the pie shoppe to my room. I grabbed a hat, a shawl and my coin purse and rushed back outside.

A very flustered Mrs. Lovett followed me.

"Victoria! Whe'a ya goin'?" she called after me

"For a walk. I will return later, Mrs. Lovett," I answered.

I needed something to take my mind away from the events.

Still walking, I hastily put on my hat and shawl, and stuffed my coin purse down into my corset. Yes, I know…_very_ improper of me. But that is very aside from the point.

I walked briskly to St. Dunstan's market, hoping and praying that the busy streets would help alleviate the turmoil running through my mind.

To be continued...

_Well folks, that's it until I update next! Please forgive (or point out, either way) any typos I made. Dunno when I'll update next...Still finishing up school. (I know, pathetic, right? I am SUCH a procrastinator...*sigh*) Oh well._

_Oh! And before I forget...you see that pretty button below these words? Please, oh please, oh please, oh please press that and leave me a review! You'd make me the happeist teenager in the world if you dropped me a review! ^_^ ~dangrgul~_


	9. December 10th, 1846 Second Entry

**The Journal**

_**I own nothing except Victoria. All credit goes to Paramount, Tim Burton, Christopher Bond, and whoever else helped to make Sweeney Todd.**_

_Hey guys! Ok…I personally don't like this chapter as much. It was kinda boring for me…I hope it's not boring for you as well! Ok…I'm done babbling now. Onward! ~dangrgurl~_

**8 – December 10****th****, Wednesday, Second Entry**

St. Dunstan's market was quite busy today, much to my pleasure. It was just what I needed. I browsed around for a long while, taking in the sights.

There were many, many stands – both permanent fixtures and temporary stands. There were ones for food and ones for furniture, all of them with people crowded around them.

I looked around for a little while, politely declining every offer that was made to me. Of course, with money being as scarce as it is nowadays, that didn't bode too well with a few people. I actually turned to see an elderly woman hurrying after me with her wares in her hands! Needless to say, I was not pleased.

I browsed on for many hours, looking around for things that might interest my neighbors for upcoming Christmas. Christmas Eve is only…let me count…fourteen days away! Oh, so soon? Why, when last I looked, it was only the beginning of Autumn! Does time really go by that fast? I turned towards a clothing store and began walking there.

My thoughts, unfortunately, turned to that of Mr. Todd, Mrs. Lovett, and the Judge.

That man! Oh, I loathe him beyond words! The Judge, of course, is whom I am writing about. Aside from tossing me out of his shoppe, I don't think I could hold anything against Mr. Todd that could hold as much hate as I hold for Judge Turpin.

I have not told you what happened between him and my family, have I? Well then, let me explain. I do not know why I am explaining myself to a journal, however…although, I have noticed a difference somewhat. I suppose writing about the happenings of life is helping me with life's stress.

Anywho…back to the Judge.

I was born into a noble family. As I mentioned to Mr. Todd, my father was Lord John Taylor, the head Judge in London. He was a very wealthy man, and used that wealth to woo my mother, Mary Elizabeth. I do not think that I agree with my father's methods, but whatever worked for him is fine.

My brother Bartholomew was the first born into the family. He was always kind brother, always looking out for me and my younger sister. I always looked up to him.

Matthew came second. He was the mischievous one – always getting into things and sticking his nose where it shouldn't have been. He was always the one to know first what our presents were for Christmas.

I came after Matthew. Father told me that I was always the serious one – that I never joked and hardly played with the other children. Rather, I took to locking myself in my room for hours, only coming down to eat. Well…enough about me.

When I was four years of age, my younger sister Charlotte was born. Her birth was probably the beginning of what I call 'the beginning of the hardest part of my life'. I felt as if my sister replaced me. She took all of Mother's time. It was that year that Father began having some trouble at Court. About that time, I suppose, was when I began locking myself away in my room.

I remember one day in particular when my father tried to coax me out of my room by giving me a lovely string of pearls, but only if I promised to come out of my room for a certain amount of time each day. That promise did not last long. I still have the necklace, however, and still catch myself toying with it every now and then.

But then, three years later, the worst happened. Father was accused of stealing from the Court's coffers by a Lord James Turpin. My father, with nothing to prove him innocent, was sent to prison and Lord Turpin was made head Judge.

Now, I knew that my father would eventually be released from prison. That wasn't what made me despise Turpin like I do now. No, what happened was when my father was sent away, so were our riches and titles.

We were evicted the very next week, and the new Judge Turpin moved in. That is why I hate that man beyond words.

We moved into the streets, becoming one of the lower class citizens that did not make any more difference than the dirt on the street. We did not matter anymore…

My mother could not support us anymore. Three years of trying to peddle fruits and vegetables that she had [tried] to grow herself had left her ragged and weary. So she sent Bartholomew, Matthew and I away to boarding schools. Charlotte stayed home to help her. She said that Charlotte's 'young blood' would help her more than my ten year old blood.

I was sent away to Miss Lacey's School for Girls. I loathed that place. Probably not as much as I loathe Judge Turpin, but I loathed it all the same. I only stayed enrolled for three years.

Then, one night, something happened that would change my life forever. I was reading a newspaper that I had acquired (I will not say stolen. I do not steal, I _acquire_ things) and began reading. In that newspaper were articles about the different places of the world. I read about Asia, Africa, America…and even our dear Europe! I longed to see it all.

It was that night that I packed up my belongings and snuck out of the school to see the world. I was a young adult by then, able to make my own choices, I felt, at the age of thirteen.

I won't fill in the details of what I saw, but I will say that it was all very interesting. Especially America. If there comes a time when I earn enough money to go back there, I think I will…permanently. I loved the freedoms that they have there. It is queer, though. They are not ruled by a King or Queen. Rather, they are governed by a man called a _President_. I learned that he is not even the man to make every law! Rather, the _government_ does that! It is strange, indeed.

Anyway, I travelled for many years – until I was (or am, rather) at the age of twenty-eight. Fifteen years! Quite a long time to be away from home, don't you think?

Alright, enough of my life's story. I don't suppose there is anything left to say, except that this is the reason why I loathe Judge Turpin and why I must either end his wretched life or send him to prison like he did my father.

Or both.

I entered the clothing shoppe and browsed around for a bit. Something red caught my eye on my way out, though. It was a lovely red scarf. It's perfect, I thought. The perfect gift for little Toby. The lad is so charming, I thought. That I would find him even after Pirelli took him away again and give him the scarf.

I purchased it from the owner with some of the money that Mr. Todd gave me. I was glad, too, that the owner of the shoppe was having a sale, so that lovely red scarf did not cost as much as the initial price read. I counted the money and decided that I still had enough to buy something for Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd.

I wandered over to the next shoppe. There I found something for both Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd.

Mrs. Lovett…what a queer woman! I think I have figured out why she looks at Mr. Todd like she does. The woman fancies the man. How could I not see it before? The way she is always eyeing him, or rather, staring up at the ceiling. And the way she is nearly always offering to do things for him… "Oh, don't you both'a Mista' T! Let me do that fo' ya!" or "Mista' T, do ya need any 'elp? Ya know, I'm always 'ere fo' ya!"

Anyway, I found some lovely wooden cooking things for her. A nice new spatula, some spoons, a lovely rolling pin… Yes, I think she will like these very much.

As for Mr. Todd…

I actually haven't much to say about him. The man is harsh, cold, distant, and doesn't seem to care about anyone except for himself.

As for Mr. Todd, I found a new strop for his razors. When last I went into his room, I noticed that his strop was old and worn – it looked ready to fall apart into pieces! The strop was actually my most expensive purchase, it depleting the remainder of my money.

I gathered my bags and started off back towards the pie shoppe, feeling well enough to return. On the way, I accidentally bumped into someone, spilling my bags, as well as hers. The young lady was kind enough to help me gather them, but when I looked up into her face, I noticed something very queer.

She looked very much like my sister Charlotte! Only I knew she wasn't Charlotte, because this young woman did not have freckles, as my sister did. And there was also the fact that she looked about twelve years of age, instead of my sister who is around the age of twenty or so.

I decided to pry.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said after she finished helping me with my bags and I with hers. She looked up at me and blushed at such a grown title.

"Yes, ma'am? What can I do for you?" she asked with a polite curtsey.

"May I ask what you are doing out on Wednesday afternoon unaccompanied by a man or your mother? It is very dangerous to be out alone, even in the daylight." I raised my eyebrow, pretending to scold her.

She wrung her hands together. "My…mother is ill. She sent me out to fetch some groceries."

I pretended to think. "I see…what is your mother's name?"

"Mary Elisabeth Taylor," she replied.

Mary Elisabeth Taylor! My mother!

"Taylor," I asked, trying my hardest not to leap for joy at hearing my mother's name. "Are you, perchance, related to John Taylor?"

She looked up at me again. "Yes. John Taylor is my father."

My heart leaped. "And, may I ask, why is he not here to escort you on these dangerous streets?"

She averted her gaze downwards. I knew what was coming before she even said it. "My…father is no longer living. He died eleven years ago – a year after I was born. Mother said he was searching for someone, and had been for four years prior to his death. He was killed somewhere in Africa…"

My heart wrenched. My father…the person whom I was closest to during my childhood…was dead. I felt like weeping, but I could not do that.

"Oh," I said. "I am sorry. What is your name, child?"

"Mary Taylor," she answered.

Mary…I had never known that my parents would bear another child.

The pieces suddenly came together. If my father was…dead, and this girl who was, apparently, my younger sister was out gathering groceries without an escort, then that meant that my brothers and sister were probably married and long since moved out of the house, and that the remaining Taylor family was still poor.

But I would soon change that. As soon as I write my book, I will restore my family's wealth and reclaim our once-respected name.

"Well then," I said with a forced smile. "May I escort you home, seeing as you have none at the moment?"

She smiled and nodded, beginning to walk the familiar path home.

I will not write all that happened on the way back home…or rather, _her_ home, as we did not speak much, nor was the trip very exciting. In short, nobody recognized me (as was expected), she thanked me for escorting her, and I started off again.

But I did not go to the pie shoppe. I took a detour to a small park close by my father's old mansion – the one where Judge Turpin lives now. Seeing the old house brought back so many memories…of my father.

I sat on a bench, intending to sit back and take deep breaths until my emotions calmed somewhat.

Instead, I immediately buried my face in my hands and wept.

To be continued…

_Sorry about the shortness…couldn't think about what else to write. Oh well! More Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd action when next I update! ^_^ Oh, and by the way… Virtual chocolate chip cookies to whoever leaves me a review! Lol ~dangrgurl~_


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